


A series of unlikely reunions

by myhamsterisademon



Series: Tumblr Works [9]
Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo - All Media Types
Genre: Light Angst, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: They all lost something to each other. But that does not mean they're strangers to each other.





	A series of unlikely reunions

The interrogation room is silent, except for the shallow, ragged breathing of the woman sitting in front of him.  _He_ is calm, however. His heart beats steadily into his chest and his hands, resting on the table, do not shake.

He does not love this woman. That is how he can manage to stay so detached. But she loves him, and that is her chief weakness. She is open and vulnerable, while he is cold and unattainable.

But there is no reason to be cruel, so when he speaks it is in soft and genuine tones.

“Why are you here?” Benedetto asks. “This is no place for a fine woman as you.”

“I have come to apologise,” she says, her voice shaky and thick from unspilled tears, untold secrets, and a broken heart.

“Whatever for?” he asks again, and tilts his head to the right, observes the woman and notices similarities he had never seen before. They have the same eyes, both in shape and in colour, the same lips and the same air – something he cannot grasp or give a name to, but now he knows she truly is his mother.

“For having abandoned you,” she says – her voice breaks and, for only a moment, she hides her face in her hands and sobs. She breathes deeply, while Benedetto stares at her, silent and watching, and then she talks again.

“I thought you  _dead_ ,” she says, as some sort of explanation, and she looks at him, her eyes dimmed and red with sorrow.

“I know,” he answers, tranquil. “I do not hold anything against you.”

That, also, is true. He may not have any affection for Hermine Danglars – but what is the point of hating a woman whom he does not know? Again, he is not cruel – so when Hermine whispers  _I have always loved you, deep in my heart_ , he doesn’t reply  _You are a stranger to me._  He smiles, takes her hand and that is enough for her.

**ii**

“How are you?” she asks, softly, and Gérard in front of her shakes his head.

He seems old, so,  _so_  old, she thinks, and yet he cannot be over fifty-five. The look in his eyes, the tiredness wearing on his limbs, his thinning hair and wrinkled hands – she sees all of this and wonders where,  _oh where_  is the man she loved such a long time – almost a lifetime – ago.

Villefort opens his hands, in a meaningless gesture, and says:

“As you can see.”

“You look –” she hesitates, changes her mind – “do you need anything? Money? Food? Letters?” she asks, as she does every time they meet.

And, like every other time, he shakes his head and then looks at her – with that expression in his eyes that sends her in an unexplained fit of anger and sorrow, the more painful because she cannot bring herself to pity him.

“I only need to find our child,” he says, with a strange feeling in his voice, and Hermine’s heart clenches hardly. “He is still under there, in that wooden box, you know?”

“He is not,” she answers softly, stifling a sob, “he is in prison. You put him there.”

“I did not,” is the harsh, pained answer. “I put him under the earth, thinking him dead, but now I know he is alive. We only need to find him, get him out. They will not let me search for him, but you can. Promise me you will.”

And, invariably, she makes the promise – and then she will keep it as well as she can, sending money and clean clothes to her son, who is rotting in prison.

“We could have been so happy,” Gérard says, his voice almost void of emotion, and Hermine flees the hospital in tears, like every other time.

**iii**

“I am not here to make recriminations or to accuse you,” the young man says, his hands resting on his knees.

His voice is steady and sure – deferential but not awed. He knows what he wants to say, but his is a speech that does not sound rehearsed. It comes from his heart, and Noirtier has always appreciated an earnest man.

“My father and yourself… It happened more than twenty years ago. I was barely a child, then,” he adds, and frowns. “You did rob me of a father but –” the man stops, checks himself and sighs. “Forgive me. I said no accusations.”

Noirtier blinks once, and Franz smiles curtly.

“But nor am I here to ask for forgiveness, or to admit my father’s faults. It is not fair that the children should suffer because of their parents’ sin –” and here he stops, for merely a second, and Noirtier knows he is thinking of the young Morcerf. “I am here to thank you.”

Noirtier does not stir his gaze, but he is confident enough to know that the young man in front of him can see every one of his emotions flashing through his eyes.

“I shall be honest, and quick. You have saved me – both of us, your granddaughter and me, from a loveless marriage,” he says, and this time Noirtier blinks twice. “No, please. It is true. You know it is. I have always cared for your daughter, but not as a lover or a fiancé might. As a friend, as an older brother, perhaps. But there was no love between us, and we would have brought each other no felicity. Not the kind of felicity I saw in her eyes this morning, at any rate,” he adds.

Noirtier blinks once. He is not surprised, not really, that the young man feels this way – but he surely did not expect him to act on his feelings.

“We could have been friends, in another life, perhaps,” the Baron says, a strange light in his eyes, and smiles sadly when Noirtier blinks twice. “No, you are right. I shall leave you now. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Noirtier thinks  _I am sorry for having broken your dream of a faultless man, I am sorry for putting you through that humiliation and sorrow, I am sorry for robbing you of the father you deserved_ , but he knows it will do no good. Franz d’Epinay does not need his pity, so he blinks twice – and then he is alone.

But not lonely, for Valentine dashes into the room, all smiles and flowing dress, bringing the light and the warmth of the summer with her; she kisses his cheeks and murmurs  _I knew he was an honourable man, I always knew._

**iv**

“How did you find me?” the Count asks, leaning back on his armchair, crossing his hands on his lap. “I thought I would be quite safe here in the countryside.”

“It is a rather long story,” Franz answers with a sly smile. “It all started with Morrel –”

The Count cannot refrain an involuntary movement, and he interrupts, voice hoarse and hopeful:

“Morrel? You have seen him? How is he?”

Franz stops. He stares at Monte-Cristo for a while, dumbstruck – this being the first time he has seen the usually cold, unfeeling man express anything beyond contempt and bitterness – and, suddenly, the light of realisation flickers in his mind.

“Is that why you spared them?” he asks, a lot more indignant and angry than his voice betrays. “Morrel and Valentine? Because you love them?”

The Count starts and, for but a moment, he almost seems guilty. He quickly recovers his cool, but not quickly enough for Franz not to notice the subtle changing in his posture.

“I do not know what to are talking about,” he answers, quiet and deadly – but Franz’s bottled bitterness and anger and sadness are now let loose, so he doesn’t stop talking, however menacing the Count’s eyes look.

“Let’s not pretend I believe what you said,” he bites back, unusually passionate. “Valentine –”

“Was innocent and guiltless,” the Count interrupts again, his voice icy and frighteningly cold.

“And Albert wasn’t?” Franz quips back, bitter irony deep in his voice. “Yet you caused his father’s demise. He lost everything to you.”

“What I did, I did for Haydée. I only wanted justice.”

“Justice? Or revenge?”

The Count stares at him, silent, unreadable for anyone but Franz. He is surprised, taken aback. The Baron smiles, shaking his head.

“I never forgot that night on your island,” he admits, starting to put on his gloves. “Nor the words you spoke to me.”

There is silence again, and Franz raises from his chair. Monte-Cristo is still looking at him – but then he smiles gently, almost sadly, and he says:

“I have always admired courage in men. You, Baron, are one of the bravest I ever met. We could have been friends, perhaps, in another life.”

Franz shakes his head. He wonders, dimly, why it is that all the men he could have respected the most end up, in a way or another, hurting him.

**v**

“I am sorry for everything that happened to you and your son,” the young girl says, and Mercédès smiles somewhat wryly.

“I know you are,” she answers, unexpectedly sweet. After all, in front of her stands the person who reduced her to having to work for her life again and the serenity in her tone surprises even herself.

“I truly am,” Haydée insists, her slightly accented voice resounding in the tiny house of the late Louis Dantès. “I did not wish to hurt you.”

“And yet you did,” Mercédès remarks, not bitter or accusing or angry, simply matter-of-factly.

“I only sought – justice. Or revenge. I do not know which. Sometimes they are inextricable,” the young Greek says, almost as an explanation, something of an apology; and yet both of them know she does not regret what she did. The girl’s eyes are swift across the room, and Mercédès stands there – proud and beautiful and strong even in her poverty and ragged clothes.

They are both similar, Haydée thinks. Both of them have known love, and then sorrow, heartbreak, and then again love and richness. Except that the woman in front of her now has nothing of the sort, except the adoration of a son who is so, so far away; and Haydée has the luxury and the comfort this woman’s husband had taken away from her, without mentioning a newfound father.

It almost feels like she has taken revenge not only on Fernand Mondego, but on Mercédès Mondego as well. It is unfair, the girl thinks, but it is too late now.

“Your son is good,” Haydée says and Mercédès’ eyes, which had grown hard and dimmed with tears, soften. “I have met him. He was kind and sweet and respectful. You must be proud of him. I am sure you are.”

“Indeed,” the woman says, smiling again. “Albert is the light of my life.”

“And I have hurt him, too.”

“You have,” is the candid answer. “Indirectly, although. But then, if we had to count all the indirect causes that have led to this moment, we would have to go back twenty-six years – in a time when you, or my son, were not even born. And none of us has time for this, do we?” she adds.

There is silence, but Haydée knows the woman hasn’t finished, so she doesn’t break it. She waits, patient, until Mercédès speaks again.

“Dear girl,” she says, “you are as innocent in this affair as my Albert is. I, however, am another story. Don’t let yourself be consumed by remorse or grief or bitterness or anger. Don’t become –” the words refuse to cross her lips, but Haydée catches some of their numerous meanings. Mercédès smiles, melancholy in her eyes, and Haydée knows she is forgiven.

**v**

Her husband’s tombstone only carries two names and two dates. That is all. No famous Latin quotes, no engravings, not even flowers.

_Fernand Mondego_

_1794 - 1836_

It is empty, and Mercédès feels that her heart, too, is empty.

She has felt grief and heartache far too keenly in the past few days to be able to weep, now. She knows it will all overwhelm her again soon – but she is happy, today, to be silent with only the wind sweeping around her, and her thoughts leaving her tranquil, for once.

She has brought flowers, though she is sure she shan’t leave them, just like she shan’t talk to him: no recriminations or unsaid loving words, no thank yous or damn yous, no tears or harsh, angry thoughts. Just her and the wind.

It is too soon for this to be anything but a simple visit, a reminder of the life she used to live and of the fact that she is lucky to have at least one tomb, out of the three men she loved most in her life, on which to weep.


End file.
